


Sober

by The_Angry_Turtle



Category: Burn This - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cocaine, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:15:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Angry_Turtle/pseuds/The_Angry_Turtle
Summary: You love him, god you fucking love him--but things can only be good for so long before somethings gotta give.
Relationships: Pale (Burn This)/Reader, Pale/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Sober

**Author's Note:**

> Been inspired by some music, so I thought I'd write a Pale x Reader fic. I didn't expect it to be this long, this isn't a smut filled fic. I felt addressing the addiction that Pale has, hasn't really been written--how it affects the reader and their relationship. 
> 
> Songs that inspiried the fic:  
> Too much of not enough - Porcelain Black  
> Normal for a day - Porcelain Black  
> Gravity - Papa Roach Ft. Maria Brink

His need for blow and alcohol to numb the pain of his brother was too much. He constantly felt like he had the world on his shoulders. He’d stop by unannounced with the typical slamming of the door, his pupils blown wide talking too fast about something or another—hands shaky for something to do, and that pack of Marlboro Red’s seemed to always be handy. Normally you’d accept his hands that roamed over your skin, the pleasure he could bring oh so intoxicating. He always had a way to cloud your judgment. But, at some point, it all became fake. Just go with it so he could feel like he was stable enough to leave and go back home—leaving you with your thoughts and emotions that would keep you up.

For so long, he held a place in your heart. For so long you helped carry the burden that dragged him down. It was a cycle that was on an inevitable loop. The ups and downs he would spring was just another norm that came with loving this broken man. It builds up and up and up, and at some point something is going to have too give. There is only so much you could do. Only so much your heart could take.

You wonder what he would be like sober. No more blown pupils. No more alcohol on his breath. No more screaming and crying. No more worrying if he got home safe. No more fear of him drinking himself to death. No more praying to every deity there was, he wouldn’t overdose.

Would he really be able to love you? Could he hold you through the night and finally get a good night’s sleep without the nightmares and racing thoughts that plague his mind?

You told him that he would have to choose. He had laughed, a dry sound of dismissal. You weren’t joking around, and when he realized this, his whole demeanor changed. It was an ugly yelling match.

“You can’t just fuckin’ leave me.”

“Pale, this has gotten out of hand.”

“Don’t do this to me. You can’t be like everyone else.”

“I can’t keep doing this. The worrying, the fear that you’re gonna just one day take it too fuckin’ far!”

Voices raised and raised and raised. Your tears fall heavy. His normally whiskey ember irises blown wide. Your lips trembling. His breath laced with alcohol. Too much. Too much. Too damn much.

“So you’re gonna be like every other mother fucker in my life?!”

“I don’t wanna do this Pale. But I have to. Don’t you see what you’re doing to yourself?!”

“I’m not doin’ nothin’!”

“Pale..”

“No, you don’t get to do this. You can’t.”

He breaks. His sobs wrack his body—and you can see the thoughts zoom about in his head. Swear you can hear the buzzing. He’s on his knees, face splotchy and nose starting to run. When did it come to this? You want to comfort him. Want to run your fingers through his tangled hair and tell him it would be ok. But it would only fix things for a few days before it started up again. He’d play you into thinking he changed, that he stopped before that itch became too damn strong. Before it spiraled out of control and you’re back to where you are now.

“Please…Y/N.”

He’s gasping for breath, begging you, pleading that you don’t follow through. God it’s like he is a kicked puppy. So starved for love, but too broken to understand the meaning of it all.

“I need you to get better.”

Your voice is a whisper, just loud enough for him to hear through his sobs.

“I need you to choose. I need to know I’m more valuable than the blow. Than the booze. The other women you use to warm your bed when we fight.”

His head snaps up to look at you, eyes bleary and lips parted to let in ragged breaths. God his heart is going so fast. Feels like it is gonna burst through his fuckin’ chest.

“Bab-baby, I—”

Your voice cuts through his words, not wanting to hear his excuses. Not wanting him to deny it.

“Pale. I will help you through it. But I need to know. Otherwise I need you to walk through that door. Walk through and not come back until your mind is made up.”

You sniffle, body trembling in fear—fear that he’d leave and not come back. Fear that you weren’t enough. That he wouldn’t let you help him. Wouldn’t let you help through the healing process.

“Please Pale.”

He ignores you, turning his head to look at the wall on the far right. But even then he couldn’t escape you. The black and white photo you had taken together framed—smiles big and bright. You’d caught him mid laugh. He hated that god damn photo. He looked too happy, like some fuckin’ hallmark bullshit. To you, it was perfection. It was the real him, sober, though that week of happiness didn’t last long.

“Jimmy…Please. I need you, but I can—”

His head snaps up to lock eyes with you.

“Don’t. Don’t fuckin’ patronize me. You don’t know nothin’!”

His voice cracks as he screams at the top of his lungs. You flinch, backing up slightly. He looks like a caged animal—lips in a snarl, eyes hard and cold.

“You think you’re gonna save me? Think you can change good ol’ Pale?”

He scoffs, ignoring the hurt that graces your features. You cry harder now, reminding yourself he didn’t mean it. He couldn’t. He never did in all the previous fights.”

“Well I got some fuckin’ news for ya, sweet cheeks! You ain’t gonna change nothin'. I ain’t fuckin’ fixable.”

His voice drops an octave towards the end of his mini-spiel. He’s stood back up, and with each calculated step he takes, you keep your eyes on him—wary and afraid. When he reaches that fucking picture, he snatches it off the wall before again he is screaming.

“Is this who you want?! Some fuck who's happy-go-lucky all the damn time!? Huh? That—” he is crying again. “I can’t” he hiccups. “I can’t be that guy. I can’t be who you want me to be. Don’t you fuckin’ understand, you fuckin’” He hesitates. “You stupid bitch, you ain’t gonna be gettin' that. I ain’t no fuckin' prince on some white horse or some shit!! Get it through your thick fuckin' skull!”

He hurls the picture at your feet. You jump, but ignore the pain of small pieces of glass hitting your bare legs. You watch him break again, hands going to cover his face as he screams. Just screams and screams and screams. It’s so loud. So pathetic and heart wrenching.

You don’t know what compels you to do it, but before you know it, you’re standing just mere inches away. Your hands reach out to gently grab his hands. He struggles at first, but soon gives in to your warm grip. Pulling those large, beautiful hands from his face you guide them to your waist before pulling him to you in a hug. Another sob. Another soft whimper. You can tell he wants to scream and cry out again, but he holds it in.

“Baby, I don’t want some prince. I just want you. A better you. A clean and sober you. I want to see the real Pale—the boy in the pictures you hide away in your dresser. See the smile that reaches your eyes. I wanna see you thrive, show the world that you’re not some junkie schmuck. Baby, I want YOU. Let me love you. Let me hold you up….Pale…”

Your voice trails off, hands finally, finally running through his hair as his cries once again die down.

“I’m afraid.”

Those words he speak break your heart. Tear you apart—splits you to the bone.

“I don’t know how.”

Another whisper he lets past his plush lips. You hum softly and push him back from the home he made at the crook of your neck.

“Then we will learn how to do it together.”

You whisper, hands cupping his face so your thumbs could brush away his tears. He looks so defeated—dark circles prominent against his alabaster skin, lips chapped, nose red with traces of his once bloody nose, hair disheveled and he's just emotionally frozen. You count each freckle and mole that marks his skin and take a deep breath to keep the tears from falling again.

He’s become still as a statue, processing your words. He doesn’t speak but instead nods to himself; nods to you. You gulp and don’t break eye contact as your right hand wonders into his jacket pocket, the smooth leather cold to the touch. You don’t need to dig far before your hand wraps around the baggie of his vice. Slowly, oh so slowly you pull your hand from his pocket and he flinches, hands going to grab at yours before they stop midair, fingers just brushing your knuckles.

“It’s me, or this.”

Your voice is stern, though gentle so as not to agitate the giant before you. His hardened eyes watch you, watch your every move like a hawk. Watches as you put the fisted hand behind your back, holding his lifeline hostage. Watches as you back away toward the kitchen sink, each step backward carefully placed since glass littered the floor. When you’re half way to the kitchen, he snaps. Body lunging for you, his hands going to claw at your tight fist.

“No. No. No. Jus—just lemme finish it off.”

He’ pleading, face contorted in fear and desperation. You clutch your fingers around the baggie tighter, ignoring how his blunt nails dig into your skin.

“It’s me or this.”

You again whisper, continuing your path to the kitchen. He’s following you at your set pace, his hands not giving up their desperate assault against your tiny fist.

“Jimmy—Pale, baby, it’s me or this. Let me help you.”

His expression changes back and forth between fear, desperation; needy for another bump, his high coming down. You can see he wants this, wants to let you flush it down the sink, but he can’t stop the waging war. So used to being doped up. Too ashamed and petrified to go without the one thing he’s used to cope with for so damn long.

“Please, please just let me—I’ll let you—just one more. Baby-please-don’t-take-it-away.”

His words are rushed, so fast and jumbled. You shake your head, eyes remaining trapped within his.

“No.”

You don’t give in, even though you want to give him what he wants. Let him have one last hit. One last nose bleed. One last bit of false sense of security.

“No, baby. You know this is the right thing.”

You sooth him, coax him into calming down.

“Y/n…don-don’t, I don’t kno-know how.”

He’s crying again, words a mess of syllables he can barely put together. Your back hits the sink. Your hand is scratched raw.

“Pale, you can do this. We can do this. I’m with you. Let me help you. I love you, please. Please let go.”

He digs into your fist a little longer before his hands fall limp to his sides. You don’t hesitate to turn around, your back pressed firmly to his chest and torso. Don’t hesitate to run the cold water. Don’t hesitate to open the baggie. He’s breathing heavy, hands gripping your shirt tightly, a weak attempt to pull you away.

“It’s ok. We can do this. YOU can do this.”

Your words bring him little comfort as you dump the baggie, the contents washing down the drain. He’s shaking now, knees weak and mouth dry as he peers over your shoulder to watch his lifeline slip away…..

* * *

The next few days are hell. They say the first week or two is the hardest. You took time off for the first time in years, your pto more than enough to handle the lack of working. You keep him locked in with you—locked in your bedroom with the bathroom attached.

He says things to you he doesn’t mean. Saying anything to make you give up on him so he could run out to find the closest dealer on your block.

“You bitch! You did this to me!”

“It’s going to be ok.”

“OK!? OK!? You’re fuckin’ tryin’ to kill me!”

“We’ll get through this.”

“I fuckin’ hate You! Why are you doing this?! Please make it s—make it st-stop.”

He’s curled up against the floor, back to the wall closest to the bathroom as he sobs and curses your existence. He’s sweaty, cold, shaky, nauseous—fuck he can’t even throw anything else up because there is nothing left in his stomach. Water not even safe of being expelled, though you make him drink it anyway. He’s anxious and paranoid—swears he can hear the sweet velvet voice begging him to come play again. To get high again. To have a drink again. It'll take it all away. Make it all better. He's clammy, feels like he is burning up out of no where.

If he isn’t begging for the blow, he’s begging for the bottle. Begging for the brown liquid that could help numb some of this pain and suffering you’re putting him through.

“At least lemme have a drink.”

“We’re almost there…”

He throws things, throws fits that would make a nun swear. Glass is swept away, and not once do you put him down or yell at him. Just talk him through it.

“Y/n, baby you’r—you’re a fuckin’ bitc—fuckin’ cunt! Why! Why can’t you just let me have it?! Make thi—this go away. You don’t love me! If y—you loved me, you’d let me…”

He breaks down again.

“We’ll get through this, baby.”

* * *

He’s laughing, eyes crinkled and nose scrunched up. His molten whiskey eyes clear for this first time he can remember. His dark hair shining with a tint of chestnut in the sun. It compliments your lips that meet his cheek, a smudge of red being left from your lipstick—hair dancing in the slight breeze to give you that ethereal look.

It’s the perfect photo that hangs on your wall, replacing the one he broke just over a year ago. Just you and him. Happy. So in love. And most importantly, sober.


End file.
